


01 Sessions of Survival

by samwise_baggins, SpeedBurn (samwise_baggins)



Series: Speed Burn [1]
Category: CSI: NY, Criminal Minds (US TV), NYPD Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Scenes, Drug Addiction, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Kidnapping, Language, Profiling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise_baggins/pseuds/samwise_baggins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise_baggins/pseuds/SpeedBurn
Summary: Gideon is called to help an old friend with a new case. Stella's in legal trouble, but what can Mac do . . . especially since he's never met her?
Relationships: Claire Conrad Taylor/Mac Taylor, John Kelly/Stella Bonasera
Series: Speed Burn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/525127





	1. Painful Separations (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler: Yeah, seasons 1 – 6 of NYPD Blue and random facts from CSI: NY and Criminal Minds.  
> .  
> Setting: AU: SpeedBurn: Sunday, April 20, 1997: Chicago, Illinois and Wednesday, April 1, 1998: New York City (for about two months).  
> .  
> Note: This is a three-way crossover between CSI: NY, Criminal Minds, and NYPD Blue. Keep an eye on dates and locales so you can follow the two cases.

Setting: Sunday, April 20, 1997; Chicago, Illinois:

"Why us, Gideon? The Chicago unit can easily handle a kidnapping. Why call for someone from DC?" Derek Morgan's smooth voice sounded curious but not anxious as he turned the rental car off the turnpike.

Jason Gideon nodded, flipping to the first page in the file he held. _Taylor – Suspected Kidnapping – April 20, 1997_ was written at the top followed by a list of details concerning the crime, scene, victim, and other pertinent information. A photograph had been clipped to the page of text: a man with dark hair and an intense stare looked straight at the camera standing with an arm around a lovely brown-haired, blue-eyed woman with a playful smile. Jason stroked one finger gently down the photograph, as if touching something precious.

"The FBI didn't call us in, Derek. The victim's father called me in."

"Specifically? You know these people?" Derek didn't take his eyes from the road as he wove the car around the city traffic.

Letting out a slow breath, Jason closed the file. He didn't need to look at it to know everything it contained. "I served under him in Beirut."

Derek's eyes widened at the admission. "Wait . . . Beirut? Are you talking '83? The Marine barracks bombing? You were there?"

Jason looked at his trainee then back at the view through the windshield. His voice took on a faraway, lecturer's tone, much as it did when reciting the evidence and profile of their cases. "Lieutenant McKenna Llewellyn Taylor was severely injured and still saved others. He did surgery in the field . . . but he wasn't trained for it. Our Corpsman was swamped. I was a raw private first class and left the Corps shortly afterwards."

The senior investigator ran a finger over the edge of the case file without looking at it. He remained distant sounding, almost detached from what he said. "The lieutenant was in the hospital for weeks. I went every day to see him, but his nurse was more strict than a gunnery sergeant. She'd only let visitors in for a few minutes every three days." With the smallest shrug of his shoulders, Jason indicated a relaxed nonchalance separate from his lecturer attitude. "He lived; he healed; he stayed in and later served in the Gulf War; so she must have done something right."

"After he retired from the Marines, he went on to law enforcement. He met Claire Conrad around that time and they soon married. She works for Port Authority at Great Lakes; he's second in command of the Chicago Crime Lab." Jason finished talking, falling into an introspective silence.

Derek whistled low. He shook his head and pulled into a space in the hospital parking garage. "And they're calling in a favor with a buddy?" The young African-American investigator turned off the car.

Jason finally turned to Derek holding the file out to him. "This morning their first child, Magnolia Star Taylor, was born after a difficult delivery. Five hours ago, the doctors got Claire's hemorrhaging under control and the mother was allowed to hold her infant for the first time. After twenty minutes a nurse came in and told them Claire needed to rest and the baby needed to go back to the nursery for routine checks. She took the infant from the mother's arms, walked out of Mrs. Taylor's room, and no one has seen nurse or infant since."

Jason slid out of the car, looked over the roof at his trainee, and added, "so, yes, Lieutenant Taylor called in a favor from an old Marine buddy."

He closed the door of the rental car and turned towards the hospital entrance, Derek close on his heels.


	2. Renewed Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Father Henri Nouwen once said, "The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing . . . not healing, not curing . . . that is a friend who cares."_

**Setting: Wednesday, April 1, 1998; New York City:**

"No, Hon. Unpack later. Walk now."

Mac Taylor laughed, blue eyes crinkling as she tugged on his strong calloused hand. Tugging back lightly on her tanned fingers, the dark-haired officer grinned widely as the brown haired woman with the laughing blue eyes tumbled willingly into his lap. "What about we test that bed up in the attic? I made it up right after breakfast . . ." he dropped his voice to a low purr, nuzzling his lips right behind her ear.

Claire's laugh rang through the nearly empty house. He loved her laugh. He loved her playfulness. He loved everything about his wife.

A shadow darkened his eyes, the smile fading, the laughter dying, as Mac recalled another thing he'd loved about his wife . . . their daughter.

Something must have shown on his face because Claire's smile faltered. "Mac, we'll find her, love. We'll get her back." She slid out of his lap and pulled him unresisting to his feet. "C'mon, Mac. We're going to go walk and explore this glorious city."

Mac let her guide him out the front door and down the stone steps of their three story brownstone. He controlled his breathing, pushing down the anger and grief over their missing Maggie, swearing anew that they would find their daughter. Sitting in an unpacked house brooding about it wouldn't bring her back.

"Walk . . ." he murmured. "Yeah, let's explore. New York's not Chicago, but it can't be too different." The ex-Marine knew how different every city was from one another, but somehow all cities had felt the same to him in his vast travels: the traffic, the people, the pace, the pulse . . . the heartbeat of the city soothed and invigorated at the same time. No one was ever alone in a city and somehow that was comforting. For Mac, accepting the transfer to New York had been a chance to stick with the familiar while escaping the overwhelming pain they'd known in Chicago the past year.

Mac's sneakers hit the concrete at the bottom of the stairs and he stepped close to his wife. Entwining his fingers with hers, he matched his stride to hers as they headed towards one of the local skyscrapers. The steady rhythm of their footsteps soothed away troubled thoughts, sounding a tempo of promise and hope opening up to them in their new home.

**************

_One more bust. Just one. ___

__Avoiding the decrepit woman in the warped mirror, Stella Bonasera pushed greasy lank tangles out of her face and reached for the garish ruby lipstick. The narcotics detective applied her make-up quickly by feel rather than sight. She couldn't take the time to do an expert job; it wouldn't look right anyway. She needed to blend in with the users and pushers, not stand out. Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her ragged sweatshirt, she shook her head and slipped the over-large sleeve back onto her shoulder. Blowing out through cracked lips, Stella tossed the lipstick tube into the sink and turned towards the door, grabbing her battered orange handbag as she strode past._ _

__Her supervisor promised to switch her out after the next bust. Maybe she'd get homicide. At this point, she'd accept juvie as long as it got her off narcs and back to a normal life. She didn't mind undercover work just the cover story she'd been given._ _

__Once at the door, the detective stopped and opened her purse, dipping her hand in to check on the contents. Running a mental checklist, she ticked off the items as she felt them: gun, old used makeup tubes, pen and pad, bus pass, ripped subway stub, lighter, foil . . . Stopping, Stella felt around again. When she still didn't find the foil packet, she strode to the side table and upended her purse, running her fingers carefully through the skimpy contents. Still no packet._ _

__"Damn! Where is it?" She needed that for her cover identity. How could she be a junkie without the junk? "Okay, think, Stella."_ _

__She picked up each item and tossed it into the purse, her mind racing over possibilities. She needed the stuff. She had no money. She could go to her supervisor for supplies or funds, but she'd have to explain why she needed it. She could go to the bank and get something out of her account, but that would blow her cover . . . and she really had nothing until payday._ _

__Stella sighed and closed the purse then opened the door of the squatter's flat. She'd have to ask Johnny . . . again. With a wince, the undercover officer locked her apartment and headed down the hall. After this bust, Johnny wouldn't have to bail her out anymore._ _

__Stopping at the desk, Stella looked around for the clerk who answered phones and rented rooms by the week. Not spotting him, the brunette grabbed the phone receiver, dialed quickly, and waited for a pickup. Several tenants passed on various personal missions before she finally hung up, frustrated._ _

__Johnny hadn’t answered._ _

__Running a hand through her disordered curls, Stella looked around the pitiful grungy lobby. She rubbed her hand over her arm and sighed again. She needed to go out and buy but she had no cash. It had been a couple days since she'd bought. Stella shifted restlessly, wiping her palms down her legs. If she didn't go buy, she couldn't make that bust. She really needed to buy._ _

__There _was_ one other option._ _


	3. Chocolate Honey

**Setting: Sunday, April 20, 1997; Chicago:**

The hospital corridor seemed too bright. Meant to portray an image of cleanliness, rather the white walls and light grey flooring, the shiny silver supply cabinets, and the crisp white uniforms of the staff highlighted the sick and injured. Bandages even blended into the surroundings unless something like blood added a dreaded splash of color. Perhaps there was something more than aesthetics at work; possibly the color scheme was one more way to aid in caregiving: if a bandage didn't blend in it would need to be changed.

Derek Morgan shuddered as he pushed the uncharitable thoughts aside. His own mind-numbing, pain-filled hospital stay had biased him. Bias was the last thing he needed on this case; he needed objectivity.

He took a deep, steadying breath then another. Gathering his calm, the investigator followed his mentor down the post-delivery ward hallway. Stocky and muscular from years of football and other athletics, Derek turned female heads everywhere he walked. Enjoying feminine company, Derek encouraged their attention with his ready smile and friendly, flirtatious style. But somehow his normally outgoing personality felt at odds in this haven of new mothers and tiny infants. No matter how much a delivery ward might try to include the male parents of newborns, it still felt like a female-only zone to the young FBI agent. Derek smiled anyway.

Surprisingly a relatively large number of women smiled back. One or two even asked him to come see their proud new family addition. Holding up a hand in thanks, he called that he would try if he got the time. Derek figured the women thought he was visiting his own new family; he let them have the illusion. Who wanted to tell them that a newborn infant had been kidnapped from the supposed safety of the hospital mere hours before?

Stopping at the nurse's station right behind Jason Gideon, Derek watched attentively as he listened to Gideon introduce them with a soft voice. Anyone within hearing range stopped and reacted to the arrival of the FBI agents. Many of the people showed genuine horror, grief, and fear. Some showed disgust and anger. One displayed controlled misery. That was the man Jason spoke with.

Dark brown curls cut close, blue eyes scanning everywhere, capable looking hands clenched, the man in the jeans and button-down shirt stood stiff and watchful. This Lieutenant Taylor reminded Derek of a military man and a cop, exactly as Jason had described him to be. Taylor's eyes flicked assessingly over Derek who straightened, and then went back to Jason: either dismissing or accepting the younger agent.

Derek murmured his intention to talk to the Chicago detective's wife then moved down the hall when Mr. Taylor nodded assent.

When he got to the room, Derek hesitated, gathering himself for the coming interview. He took a moment to peek in and listen for whatever insight the mother's private actions could give him. His forethought showed a grieving woman.

Claire Taylor sat up against the raised back of her hospital bed. She was disheveled from her difficult delivery and post-delivery life-saving resuscitation. A tangle of damp brown curls clung to her tear streaked face and escaped down her back from a single hair band. She had her arms wrapped around herself in a self-protective hug. Soft murmurs of disjointed words and nonsensical sounds wrenched from her throat as she rocked. She should have been sharing this special day with her husband and new daughter; instead, she grieved alone while her husband aided the investigation into the little girl's disappearance.

Softly, Derek knocked on the open door to alert the woman to his presence. Her head shot up like a hunted deer, but her wide eyes were a tear-washed blue not a hunted brown. "Hey," he said.

"Chocolate honey?" her voice rasped hoarsely.

Unsure about the odd comment, Derek offered a gentle smile. "Excuse me?"

The woman sighed and said "did you bring chocolate honey?"

Derek shook his head. "No, sorry. I only brought me." He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but she interrupted him.

"Oh. I'm craving chocolate honey." She sighed and straightened in the bed. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Derek Morgan. I'm with the FBI." He stepped into the room, watching her carefully, wincing inside at her sudden look of wrenching pain.

Claire nodded and unwrapped one arm to pat the bed beside her. "I'd rather not need you." The woman seemed perfectly lucid. "What should I call you? Officer Morgan? Agent Morgan? Derek?" Then, her eyes catching a faint sparkle of mischief inherent to her personality, she added almost playfully in her sad voice, "Chocolate Honey?"

He couldn't resist his answering laugh, and he stepped over to the woman's bed. "Whatever makes you comfortable, Mrs. Taylor."

She shook her head. "No. Too formal. Please, call me . . ." she paused, as if toying with the choices and finally settled on "Sugar's nice." Claire offered a small smile then added "or Claire if you'd rather."

Meeting the woman's attempt at lightening the somber mood, Derek responded, "Okay, Sugar, as long as Mr. Sugar doesn't get upset with me."

A loud peal of laughter burst from the woman, surprising Derek and drawing her husband and Agent Gideon to the room. Claire smiled tremulously at the two newcomers and stretched out a shaking hand to her husband. "Mac, I love this guy. He's my new chocolate honey." Her voice took another sad dip as her husband joined them.

The comment bordered on the inappropriate but Jason didn't correct her. Neither did Mac. Both just turned their attention to Derek who shrugged slightly in response. He innately found the right note to handle most women. Hoping he played his hand right, Derek said, "I failed to bring the real thing."

Apparently, it _was_ the right thing to say.

Mac moved to his wife and lowered himself to sit on the bed, his posture less stiff as he settled by the disheveled woman. The military bearing he'd displayed in the hall seemed little more than an illusion. He took her hand and brought it to his lips for a brief salute then looked up at the two agents. His voice sounded hoarse, yet controlled, as he said "I'm glad you like him, Claire. He's Gideon's trainee."

The woman nodded and leaned into her husband, her smile still playing gently over her lips, fading in and out. "Hey, Jace. It's been awhile. Thanks for coming." Her attempt at normalcy broke on a sob and she turned her face into her husband's shoulder as he wrapped her protectively in his arms.

Jason moved to stand on the same side of the bed as Mac sat. "Claire. I wish it was different circumstances. Could you tell me what happened?"

She nodded and lifted her face, fresh tears adding another salty layer to her already tear-stained face. "A nurse brought in my baby and handed her to me." She drew a deep breath, paused as if for thought, then added softly, "twenty minutes passed and a different nurse came in and told me Magnolia had to go back to the nursery. I kissed my baby and handed her over and the nurse left. Maybe fifteen minutes later, the first nurse came back for the baby. When I told her someone had already come for her, the nurse left. An alarm went off and the loudspeaker said there was a _Code Adam_." Claire covered her mouth with a shaking hand and sobbed "that means kidnapping. I knew my baby was the one taken."

Reaching out a sympathetic hand, Jason touched Claire's arm. "Take some deep breaths, Sugar," he said, confirming that Claire had also let him use the familiar nickname. After the woman followed his instructions, Jason turned to her husband. "Lieutenant?"

"Mac," he corrected. "I was with the doctor discussing Claire's health care when the alarm sounded. I was there the entire time our daughter was in the room and watched the woman in the nurse's uniform take her away. I followed, but only as far as Claire's delivery doctor so I could discuss Claire's care." He frowned, his face turning so severe that his Marine background became quite believable. "I had no idea she wasn't an employed nurse."

Derek asked "what did she look like?"

The ex-Marine shook his head and frowned severely. "Light brown or blonde hair, about shoulder-length. Slim, about five nine." He looked directly into Derek's brown eyes, the Chicago detective's blue eyes dark with determination. "I didn't really look at her. She wore a white knee length dress and white soft shoes polished to a shine. She had her hair down and it waved slightly. I didn't get a good look at her face, though. I was too enraptured with Maggie."

"Understandable," Jason added. "Do you know if you saw her before? Either around the nursery or even before the delivery?"

Claire nodded. "I don't know when, but I've seen her. Or she seemed familiar." She suddenly shuddered and wailed, "I should have challenged her. I should have asked for I.D." Claire buried her face in her husband's shoulder again, her entire body shaking as she sobbed.

Mac wrapped both arms around his wife and held her close, his face contorting as he fought his own grief-filled release.

Jason looked at Derek then back at the genuinely traumatized couple. Unless they were supreme actors, they hadn't been involved in the infant's disappearance. The agents would have to look further afield for answers.


	4. Cry for Help

**Setting: Sunday, April 1, 1998; New York City:**

"Can you believe they've never heard of chocolate honey?" Claire kept her arm entwined with Mac's as the pair strode past small storefronts and littered alleyways. She kept her purse on the arm between her and her husband and kept her grip loose enough that he could draw his weapon if needed. “I am going to have to introduce this city to the one thing it seems to be missing."

Mac laughed and turned to look at his vivacious wife. Stealing a quick kiss from her smiling lips, Mac glanced in each alley they passed, alert despite his casual attitude. He'd grown up on the rough streets of Chicago and did not underestimate the danger of this new city. "I agree. They're culinary neanderthals," Mac teased, delighting in Claire's rippling laugh.

"I can cook."

The hoarse whisper emerged from a sun-lit alley near a dumpster. The pair turned to look at the speaker: a dirty, sallow-skinned, too-thin woman of indeterminable age or beauty. The woman shuffled closer to the edge of the alley, watery eyes darting around warily. She wiped her runny nose on one already encrusted sleeve then turned back to the pair. "I can cook a masterpiece. You like Greek? I can do Greek." She shuffled just a bit closer, clasping a gaudy orange handbag against her torn sweatshirt. "Or Italian? I can do Italian, too. Or burgers."

Claire never took her eyes from the haunted, hungry look on the decrepit woman's face. Those green eyes compelled her to listen. With a small frown, Claire watched as the stranger clenched and unclenched her free hand repeatedly, running her fingers in a stroking motion over the clasp on her bag . . . again and again. "You cook?" ventured the pretty brunette. "What's your name?"

"Yes," the other woman jumped at the implied interest, ignoring Mac's sudden hiss of warning. "I can cook, clean, sew . . . I walk dogs, watch kids, wash windows . . ." the woman's eyes darted once more around at the mass of humanity seething around them in determined ignorance. "I . . ." she licked her lips, a nervous gesture, "I can make it worth your while." She ran her eyes over Claire then Mac and added "both of you." As an afterthought, she added "name's Starr."

Disgust welled in Mac at the woman's blatant sexual proposal, and he ignored the stab of grief the name brought with it. It wasn't the thought of having sex with her so much, though he certainly was not interested. What bothered the detective was the idea that this poor woman had been driven to selling herself. He looked her over, noting the clutching hands, runny nose, watery eyes, fetid breath, and pale skin. By the looks of her, the woman was a heroin junkie. Junkies often turned to prostitution and theft to supply their habit.

Mac slipped his hand towards his pocket, intent on arresting the woman for prostitution just to get her off the streets for a few nights.

"Starr?" Claire's voice sent a jolt of surprise through her husband, but she ignored his stiffening stance.

"Mine's Claire. This is Mac." Claire tried to hide the longing in her voice, but she couldn't hide the desire to help. She felt compelled, connected. "Would you be willing to go someplace more comfortable for this? I don't fancy an alley." Claire slowly let her eyes rove the woman as if she were truly interested in sharing her husband with her.

The woman nodded. "There's . . . uh . . . rooms around the block." Her green eyes darted from Claire to Mac and back. "You sure? Looks like your boyfriend isn't happy about sharing." She started shuffling back into her alley.

"No, I'll share," Mac said, surprising himself but trusting Claire to know what she was doing. "But I do fantasies." He felt Claire pull away and turn to look at him but refused to meet her wide blue eyes. He was afraid he'd break down and just bust the woman if he had to acknowledge the lie by looking at his wife.

"Fantasies? Like teacher and bad student?" Starr looked a bit put-out but didn't leave or out-right refuse.

The detective nodded and shrugged. "I like shower stalls and bathtubs." He looked the woman over, keeping his face neutral. "If you will let us share in a shower . . ." Mac trailed off and felt a small triumph when the woman eagerly took the bait.

"Yes, showers are fine. Let's go." Starr passed them, surprisingly light on her feet for someone in need of a hit.

"No," Claire smiled and slid her arm in the other woman's, turning her in the opposite direction. "This way. Our home is this way."

**************

Stella frowned at the brunette woman with the blue eyes, her racing mind going too quickly to figure out this puzzle. "Your home?" She glanced at the dark-haired man with the blue eyes and immediately pulled her gaze back to the woman. He was too damn good looking and something about him was too damned disciplined. He reminded her of a judge.

Common sense told the narcotics officer that allowing these people to bring her home would be a dangerous mistake. She would be helpless in their house. The shower fantasy thing she didn't believe for a minute; the guy probably wanted her clean. Stella wouldn't mind a hot shower; her utilities had been cut off last week and she'd been living on cold canned food and tap water from the laundry room hose.

Of course, she could walk away and hit up someone else for the money she needed: only enough for a buy so she could make the bust, of course. Once she made the bust, she could drop the cover and access her bank account. She could move back into a real apartment and keep clean. But first she had to make the bust. And in order to do that, she needed money. That led her back to the original problem: no money.

Looking over the woman who guided her down the street, Stella made a quick decision based on instinct. Somehow, she felt this pair was honest, if a little kinky hiring someone for a threesome. Stella could hardly expect as clean-cut a mark a second time. Besides, she could handle herself against these two. All she had to do was stay alert. Her stomach roiled, but she ignored the continuing discomfort.

She nodded. "Okay. Your place. We shower and play. Sounds great." She peeked at the man then snapped her eyes forward again. _’Still too unnerving to look at him.’_ Something about him felt like her whole world was about to shift and she wasn't sure how to stop it . . . or if she even wanted to.

**************

They walked for some time, and the longer they walked the worse Stella felt. As they crossed into a quiet neighborhood she realized that she wouldn't be getting that score today. This wouldn't be an easy night. Glancing at the nice looking pair she walked between then back at the quiet street lined with pretty brownstones, she wondered what she could do to get out of this mess. Maybe she could call Johnny again.

Surprise lanced through Stella when the pair abruptly turned her towards the steps of a three story brownstone set in a tiny green yard. No curtains hung at the windows, no furniture seemed to loom inside. The place felt abandoned and the narcotic officer's sense of danger ratcheted up. She tried to get her chaotic thoughts in order as the couple led her up the stone steps and into the home.

Boxes stood everywhere, marked with room and content notes. A few pieces of furniture were pushed against a wall in the spacious living room, but only a pair of chairs seemed usable: the rest were piled with smaller containers and newspaper wrapped parcels. Even the glimpse of the kitchen beyond the open doorway showed a home packed tight for moving.

Stella tried to wriggled back out the door, but the woman, Claire, wouldn't let go, though her husband did. "Uh," Stella looked around. "I need to use the bathroom." _’Great, lame excuse, Bonasera!’_ She gave a hopeful smile at the woman.

Claire smiled back at her and said "sorry this place is a wreck. We just moved in last night and haven't got a chance to unpack yet. There's a working bathroom upstairs." Without releasing Stella, the woman led her guest up flights of stairs to the attic room with the single bed and the open door leading to a neat, clean bathroom. Sparsely furnished but clean were good signs, at least, and Stella nodded, smiling wanly.

She broke free at last and looked nervously at Claire and Mac, who'd followed the women after rooting in a box for a few minutes.

Mac stepped forward, holding out a large towel and matching washcloth, a bottle of avocado shampoo, and a brand new bar of soap. As the nervous woman took them from his hands, he let his eyes quickly size her. "You and Claire are the same size. I'll get you something to wear." He turned towards the door.

Stella clasped the supplies against her chest and backed a step towards the bathroom. Hopefully it had a lock. Suddenly her swimming head seemed to explode in painful stars and the entire room lurched. With a cry, Stella dropped the bath supplies and fell to her knees. Squeezing her eyes shut, she opened her mouth and helplessly vomited all over the floor.

Claire jumped forward to encase Stella in strong arms, pushing her matted hair from her face as the sick woman emptied her stomach.

Mac stepped backwards into the hall as if afraid he'd be covered. "Starr?" His voice held all the worry of a caring friend, though they'd only just met.

Wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, shaking with the weakness that always came with being sick, Stella looked up at the handsome man through pain-filled eyes. "Sorry . . ."

"Is there someone I can call for you?" he asked, his voice still concerned, his blue eyes worried.  
Surprised at the offer, Stella covered her mouth, choking down another wave. After a long struggle, she gasped, "Johnny. Call Johnny Kelly." Before she could provide his number, Stella began to vomit once more, barely aware of Claire's soothing, worried tones.

Mac ran down the stairs.

**************

A name wasn't much to go on, but Mac had the latest phone book and an investigator's keen mind. They'd found the woman close by, so he'd start there with his search. If this Johnny was her pimp or handler, he wouldn't be too far from where she trawled. Mac knew this Starr woman would be too weak to do anything to Claire, so he had no qualms leaving the women alone while he dealt with this Johnny character. Why arrest a prostitute when you could get the pimp, too?

Flipping quickly through the pages of the phone directory, Mac found the entries of Kelly rather quickly. There were a lot of them, probably an Irish neighborhood, but only one Jonathan listed. Grimly, the former Chicago cop grabbed his mobile phone and flipped it open. His finger followed the written information as the thumb on his other hand typed out the number, then he brought the device to his ear and listened as it rang.

On the fourth ring, someone picked up. A pleasant baritone said, "John Kelly, can I help you?" He sounded friendly enough, with a decided Brooklyn accent tinted by his Irish ancestry.

Unable to picture the man that went with the voice, Mac immediately replied, "hello. Starr's sick and said to call you." He knew he should have introduced himself, but held back, waiting to see what this guy said.

"All right." Johnny sounded calm as he responded slowly. He paused, as if to think things through, then asked, "where is she?"

Mac gave the address he had only moved into the night before. "I can send her to a hospital," Mac offered.

"Ah, no." The other man replied in his smooth voice. "That won't be necessary. I'll come get her." He paused on the other side then finally asked "and who should I thank?"

Pausing just as long, Mac said "my name's Mac." He didn't add anything else and Johnny didn't ask.

The other man said, "uh, all right, I'll be right there." He hung up, leaving Mac staring thoughtfully at the bare wall of his bare home. Upstairs he could hear Claire getting Starr cleaned up and into the attic bed.

Who'd have thought when he left Chicago that he'd jump right into the bad side of New York City.


	5. Not What It Seems

**Setting: Sunday, April 20, 1997: Chicago:**

Jason looked over the room. "Has anything been moved since the woman left?" The room seemed to be well-ordered but no hospital bassinet sat near the mother's bed. The lack of a new delivery gift basket also seemed conspicuous.

The Chicago cop shook his head. "No. I'll take you to the room. Claire was moved in here as soon as we realized what had happened. We've got a patrolman stationed at the door so no one will interfere with the scene."

As troubling as having a police officer as a victim felt, it helped. He had been able to control the crime scene and keep it as pristine as possible for the coming investigation. Not many people would have had enough self-discipline to think of such a thing.

Gently squeezing Claire's hand, Mac turned and led Jason from the room, leaving the young trainee with the young mother.

"Okay, ask me," Claire surprised Derek by saying, her voice wavering with her attempt to remain in control.

Derek turned and looked at her. "Ask you?"

Claire nodded and gestured towards the chair nearest her bed. "Sit, Chocolate Honey. Mac called Jace in because he's got profiling skills. He's one of the leading authorities in the field." She smiled tremulously and watched Derek walk over and slip onto the chair. "So, if you're his trainee, he must be teaching you profiling."

"Ah," Derek nodded and smiled back. "Yes, he is."

"Good." Claire straightened in the bed and took a deep breath. "I don't mind going through this more than once, so you can practice your skills on me. Ask away."

Running a hand down his trousers leg, Derek sighed. "Look, Sugar, I appreciate the offer, but the profile questions won't be easy. I think it's better if we wait for Gideon."

A frown settled on the woman's tired face. She leaned back into the bed and turned her face away, her posture stiff with displeasure.

He hated upsetting her after what she'd been through, but Derek had seen people break down with only one run through some of the necessary questions. He was new at working with the profiles and had to rely on the thick sheaf of pages; he hadn't memorized the questions yet. If a victim saw the document, consisting of over twenty pages of questions, the case might seem hopeless. True, the document mainly asked about the scene itself, but that many pages were sure to scare any victim.

Claire Taylor merely looked at Derek, interrupting his thoughts. "Honey, I'm married to a cop. I work for law enforcement. I know the reasons behind waiting, but the longer I wait, the further she gets away." The brunette shuddered and seemed to sink into the hospital bed, as if losing the strength she'd found a moment before. "I actually want to answer the questions twice. I think it would help."

Surprise flitted across Derek's handsome face. "How could it help?"

"If my answers differ, we'll find where I'm fuzzy. The second time might trigger more information. And with two different people asking, I'll have two different assessments. I know you won't ask me every question in your form, but the ones I can answer, I will." She raised pain-filled blue eyes and reached one hand to touch Derek's arm. "Come on, Chocolate Honey," she offered a wavering smile, "it'll give me a feeling of being useful. I'm stuck in this bed for several days."

He couldn't argue with her determination. Derek nodded and flipped open the file, pulling out a pen and some blank sheets of paper from the back. "Okay, we'll start with the same questions I already asked earlier . . ." he instructed and wrote each answer as she gave it.

**************

When they arrived at the room at the end of the hall, Jason identified himself to the patrol cop stationed there. He apparently ignored the man as he looked into the room, but Jason Gideon was very observant. He noticed things many didn't pick up on; his attitude was cultivated to get others to relax.

Once inside the room, he noticed the disarray of the bedclothes, as well as the blood on the bed liner, unchanged at Mac's insistence. He gestured towards it casually, to test Mac's reaction. "Blood?"

Mac nodded and sighed, worry in his every movement. "Claire hemorrhaged for several hours. They got the bleeding under control but not stopped." He looked at his former Marine. "It was a very difficult delivery, Gideon. The doctor's already making predictions that Claire shouldn't carry another." Mac's voice flared in frustration and anger. "He had to bring that up right after Maggie was taken." Mac's blue eyes darkened in further pain. "No bedside manner."

Jason turned to his former superior officer and frowned, his brown eyes narrowing in concentration. "My wife would have switched doctors."

"This wasn't her normal doctor." Mac shook his head. "Her doctor's on maneuvers. And, yes, we've got this guy detained in case he was part of this. The hospital's pissed because they had to scramble to find another delivery doctor to replace him, but they're working with it."

"And the nurse?" Jason turned fully to Mac, studying his old friend. The Chicago cop remained in control, barely. Jason had seen him this way before: after the Beirut bombing. Mac Taylor seemed to thrive on high stress situations, but after the action ended, he was prone to becoming a bit overwhelmed. He'd even been known to make decisions he regretted within a few hours. Jason wondered which decisions Mac had made that he'd regret this time.

Mac stayed still in the doorway to the hospital room. His eyes roved the entire scene, but it wasn't clear whether the man saw his surroundings or not. He didn't speak for some time but when he did his voice sounded low and serious. "She seemed familiar but I couldn't place her. I'm sure I've seen her around the hospital before, but I can't pinpoint any specific times or dates."

Slowly, Mac's eyes widened and he turned to Jason completely. "Wait, she shouldn't be here."

Jason didn't take his eyes from Mac. "You remember something?"

Mac nodded. "Claire was scheduled to deliver on base, but the bleeding started so quickly we went to the closest hospital. If we've seen that nurse, it was on base. We don't normally use the civilian hospitals."

A single nod and Jason turned crisply and strode from the room, his bearing suspiciously military in that moment. Mac followed as Jason strode directly to the lead Chicago agent and told him what they'd found out. This could be the breakthrough they needed: a possible military perpetrator.

The agent turned and gave commands to extend the search to the base, especially the base hospital staff.

Turning to Mac, Jason gestured back towards the guarded room. "Let's see what else you can remember, Mac." They strode back into the room, intensity vibrating from both former Marines.


	6. Promises of Threats

**Setting: Sunday, April 1, 1998; New York City:**

A knock sounded less than ten minutes later, surprising Mac. He walked to the door and looked out the patterned glass panel inset next to the old wood. Through the warped glass, Mac saw a six foot tall man with bright red hair dressed in a business suit. Irish most certainly but rather understated for a pimp. Mac opened the door and stepped back. "Johnny Kelly?"

The redhead nodded and stepped inside, glancing quickly around his surroundings. "Yeah. Mac?"

"That's right," Mac responded. He carefully closed the door, not wanting to draw the attention of their new neighbors. Surprise coursed through the former Chicago cop when Johnny went on to pull out security credentials.

"I'm a private detective," Johnny explained. "Where's Starr?"

The pieces in the puzzle began to shift and Mac asked "she's a narcotics officer, isn't she?" He'd seen many good cops turn dirty because of narcs. Often it was the undercover work and the necessity to use the drugs to elicit confidence for the larger drug busts.

Johnny nodded, frowning softly. "She told you?" Surprise laced the man's voice.

"No," Mac slipped out his own credentials and presented them to Johnny. "I'm the new head of the crime lab, Mac Taylor."

"Damn," Johnny's frown deepened. He slid his hands to his waist, pushing back his suit jacket and inadvertently exposing the gun in the shoulder holster. "What do you plan to do with her?" the detective asked.

"I plan to get her cleaned up." Mac turned and led Johnny up the stairs, all senses alert in case the stranger tried anything.

At the attic, Mac gestured at Starr lying, filthy and exhausted, on the bed. Claire had already cleaned up the vomit from the floor. Johnny swore softly and turned to Mac. "And what then? She's supposed to be working a local ring." Johnny sounded disgusted but it wasn't clear why. Closing the door on the women, Mac turned to Johnny. "What do you suggest? She needs off the drugs, my guess is heroin, and out of narcs."

Surprisingly, Johnny nodded and sat on the top step, waiting until Mac joined him. "She works for the 15th. The narcs supervisor's a real ass but no one will turn on him. I can't get enough on him since I left the precinct and my old partner's knee deep in homicide." He turned worried blue eyes on Mac, his voice disgusted as he said "I've gotten her cleaned up three times, totally off the heroin, but that ass keeps throwing her back in. Stella keeps getting caught up in the cycle and starts using again. He keeps promising her out and a big promotion, but I think he's holding the drug use over her to make her continue. She's made the most busts of any of his crew."

Thoughtfully, Mac nodded, blue eyes staring at nothing in particular as he processed the information. Finally, softly, he said, "I know a way to clean her up without it getting on her record." He looked at Johnny, noting the surge of hope in the other man's eyes. "And I can use her to help clean up the 15th." He stood and opened the door, signaling Claire to join them in the hall.

After briefly explaining the undercover officer's predicament, Mac added, "what I've got in mind is going to be dangerous and could get us all thrown in prison if it doesn't work." He looked from his wife to Johnny. "But if it does work, we can take down a dirty cop and expose a police cover-up."

Johnny nodded and ran a hand through his red hair. "It's a big risk to you guys to help her out. You can't take her to the hospital: the paper trail would kill any chance for this to work. He's got the clinic staff and some of the hospital in his pocket." Johnny's accent thickened as he became more angered at the injustice.

Mac nodded. "That's not what I have in mind."

**************

Johnny shook his head, putting his coffee cup down on the windowsill. The plan these Chicago transplants had didn't sound any better the third time they'd run through it. "It's too dangerous. The number of survivors from a cold turkey withdrawal are . . . uh . . . too low to take the chance."

"The only way to get the alternate medicine would be to check her into the hospital or rehab," Mac countered. Over the last several hours they'd discussed every possibility for helping the woman lying on the bed nearby. The arguments always circled back to what Mac proposed: Mac and Claire would keep Stella at their house and clean her up while Johnny would tell everyone she was taking personal leave to find her parents. The fact that Stella had been adopted added that personal touch to the story. But the hazards of quitting without medical assistance were proven time and again on the streets. Mac had no illusions that this would be the most unpleasant experience Stella would ever go through.

The red-haired New Yorker turned to look out the window onto the quiet, reasonably clean street. "She could die," his voice sounded choked, desperate.

"I want to." Stella lay on the bed, trembling but lucid. She looked from Johnny to Mac to Claire then back to her oldest friend. "Johnny, I can't keep doing this. I need out. I need out of narcs, out of the 15th." She pushed to a sitting position, smiling wanly as Claire helped her. "Johnny, I trust them."

Johnny turned, his face twisted in pain for the woman he hadn't been able to help so far. "We just met them, Stel. They took up a stranger on an offer of a threesome for money. How can you trust them?" He didn't care if he insulted the couple; he spoke the harsh truth.

Claire sank onto the mattress next to the shaking Stella, wrapping a secure arm around the other woman. "Then stay and help us. You can be part of this."

Johnny's blue eyes widened at the offer and he studied Claire for a long moment. Finally, he looked at Stella. "You know what it is they want to do, Stella, right?"

Taking a deep breath, the dark-haired officer nodded slowly. "Yes, Johnny." She reached out a hand and he grasped it. "They want to give me a chance to break free. They want to give me back my life."

"But it could kill you, Stel," he slid to his knees by the bed, bringing her hand to his lips, his eyes searching hers desperately.

Neither Mac nor Claire denied the strong possibility Johnny feared.

Stella turned her hand to cup Johnny's cheek. "But I could live, Johnny. The way I am now, I'd be better dead. I can't do it anymore."

The friends looked at one another for several slow heartbeats, communing in silence, their eyes relaying their thoughts, their fears, their hopes. Finally, Johnny turned his head slightly to kiss Stella's palm. "Alright, Stella. Alright."

She offered a tremulous smile.

With a decisive nod of his head, Mac strode towards the trio at the bed. "First thing then is to secure you so you won't get out." He met Stella's eyes, his manner as serious as the frown on his face. "And begging won't make us relent."

"I've been through withdrawal before, Mac," Stella assured him.

He shook his head. "Not like this. This will be hell."


	7. A Dark and Twisted Mind

**Setting: Sunday, April 20, 1997, Late Evening; Chicago:**

Several hours had passed yet the hospital staff did nothing to hinder the investigation or the activities of the FBI agents. The delivery doctor and other staff were interviewed, base security was contacted, and other new mothers carefully approached to gather information on the actions of the unknown suspect, or UNSUB, as Jason Gideon referred to her. Finally, Jason and his protégé sat down with local law enforcement, Chicago's FBI investigators, and the victim's father, Mac Taylor. Normally the family would have been excluded, but Jason made an exception for the assistant supervisor of the crime lab; though, he did forbid Claire Taylor, the victim's mother, from attendance.

When all had gathered, Jason Gideon turned to the lead police investigator for the case. "Have you found anything more on the nurse?" He felt it best to include local law enforcement as much as possible: less professional friction made for better end cooperation.

"Yeah," the man said. "Admin says they had a few volunteers come in from the base because several regular nurses are out with the flu and one from an insulin overdose. The only military nurse unaccounted for from the sign-in register is a woman named Lieutenant Taylor." Mac stiffened as the cop looked at him and finished, "no first name."

"No first name?" Derek asked leaning slightly forward.

The cop frowned and nodded. "Right. Said military doesn't use 'em so she never answers to one."

"She said Lieutenant Taylor?" Mac asked, his voice neutral, his expression closed.

Suddenly, the cop seemed to get the link and turned widening brown eyes on the crime lab investigator. "Damn . . ."

Jason interrupted, "and what did the base say about her?"

The same cop, Officer Gerrin, tore his eyes away from his colleague and looked at the profiler. "Said she didn't exist. Said there is no Lieutenant Taylor on record." He picked up his notes. "Also said they mustered all the Taylor's and all were accounted for, so they pulled a surprise drill and mustered all hospital staff." He looked up. "Only three didn't show up."

Mac's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, but he didn't interrupt. _’Could we have Maggie back this very night?’_ He held his desperate question.

"One was a Petty Officer Davis who's in the hospital for an appendectomy. They checked and she's still there." Gerrin read from his notes. "Second is a Lieutenant Shyver who's now considered AWOL."

"Shyver?" Derek nodded and picked up the description of their UNSUB. "What's the lieutenant look like?" He hoped the locals had been thorough enough to ask.

They had. Officer Gerrin gave Derek a penetrating look as he recited, "six foot African-American woman with glasses and a limp from a recent fight with Shore Patrol."

"Damn," one of the Chicago FBI Agents swore, "not our UNSUB."

"No, sir, I didn't think so, but I wanted to be thorough." Gerrin looked back at his notes. "The third," he continued without request, "is a Commander Lisa Maynard who's been on leave for two days. According to her fellow nurses, she had been planning a trip to Florida for a week's stay. The base is trying to reach her but she hasn't been in touch. Her plan included booking a catamaran though, so she may be out of range."

Flinging a pen down in frustration the Chicago agent blew out his breath in disgust. "So, not from the base."

"I think she may be," Mac interrupted quietly, a stricken look in his blue eyes. "The UNSUB was calling herself Lieutenant Taylor and Commander Maynard is missing." He ignored the curious and confused looks on the other investigator's faces as he met Jason's widening brown eyes.

Jason didn't disappoint. "Ensign Maynard was your nurse after Beirut . . . when you were still a Marine Lieutenant."

Mac nodded as the room broke into surprised responses: some exclaiming, others standing.

"Everyone!" Jason raised his normally quiet voice to regain control. "We have a profile and a suspect."

The lead investigator, Gerrin, shook his head in disgust. "What do we need with a profile now? We already have a suspect!"

Derek shook his head. "A profile can tell you how to handle her so the danger to the infant is less."

That drew every investigator's attention. No one wanted to see little Magnolia Taylor hurt.

Finally, Jason filled the void. "We are most likely dealing with a deliberate attack. It's personal. This woman feels she has a connection with Mac . . . possibly even a romantic relationship based on their past history when she took care of him." Jason frowned softly, his normal lecturer's tone coming to the fore. "The UNSUB is delusional and may believe Mac is in love with her. She may even believe the infant is hers. She will hide in order to protect her perceived child, but she won't go far. She'll want to stay close to Mac." Jason turned his eyes directly on Mac when he added "Claire will in all probability be her next target. The UNSUB will need to replace who she sees as the _'other'_ woman, the interloper in her own relationship with Mac."

Derek jumped in before the others could respond. "You'll need to get NCIS, the military crime investigators, involved since the UNSUB is a navy nurse who's probably gone AWOL. You'll need to handle this woman carefully. If she thinks there's a threat to her relationship to Mac, she may kill the infant and hide out. She's waited for fifteen years in the background. She's prepared to wait even longer."

One investigator raised her hand and asked "what kind of protection for Mrs. Taylor should we have?"

Jason sighed. "If Claire stays local, so will the UNSUB. The greatest protection could be to keep a twenty-four hour guard on the Taylors, but nothing obvious or the UNSUB may feel threatened. Moving around will probably keep the UNSUB too busy trying to find them to do any harm for the near future, but it's no guarantee and will make locating the UNSUB and the infant harder."

He turned back to his old military supervisor. "Mac, that will be up to you and Claire."

Mac nodded grimly as he sat back in his unyielding chair. He was only distantly aware of the sudden preparations to find his daughter, concerned with the new prospect that his wife, too, was in very real danger.


	8. Hell to Pay

**Setting: April 1, 1998; New York City:**

Decision made, Mac nodded and hurriedly left the house on an unspoken errand. Claire gave Stella’s hair another gentle stroke before standing and heading for the door. “I’m going downstairs for a moment. Keep an eye on her?” She needed to figure out what supplies they had and to unpack them.

Johnny slipped to Stella’s bed and sank down beside her hip. He frowned softly at his long-time friend, watching as she hugged herself. The bedraggled brunette occasionally whimpered as she rocked back and forth, her hip brushing Johnny’s leg with every movement.

Pain laced through Stella’s entire body, sending spasms through her muscles and a bone-deep aching tearing at her joints and legs. She knew the painful, dangerous process of withdrawal, the long tapering off the drug and then off the secondary drugs. Second guesses roiled up from her racing, confused brain. Maybe she could ask to go to the hospital? Was keeping her condition from her boss the sanest thing to do? What if this back-fired? Pain warred with logic and logic was quickly losing.

With a sob, tears leaking unchecked down her dirty pale cheeks, Stella unclasped one arm from her middle and reached out to grab Johnny’s arm with shaking fingers. "Johnny? Why’d they leave? Is this really cold turkey? How is this keeping me from getting out?" She shook her head, trying desperately to distract herself from the pain and building nausea.

As he turned sympathetic blue eyes to meet confused green ones, the redhead smiled gently and slipped his strong hand over her weak one. His voice soothed as he replied, "Mac and Claire are getting supplies to help with the symptoms. I’m here to make sure you don’t leave, Stel. You feeling bad already?" Johnny carefully began untangling her clumped hair with one gentle hand, the other still laying over Stella’s.

Stella half choked on her responding laugh. "God, yes, Johnny! I’ve been feeling like hell for two days. It’s getting so I can’t think straight, and my body’s trying to rip itself apart. It’s the only reason I stopped them, you know? So I could get some money and get a hit."

The sound of footsteps on the attic stairs interrupted the brief admission and both turned towards the door.

Mac pushed sedately into the room and strode to Stella’s side. "That was quicker than I thought," he murmured, not clarifying what he meant. Rather, he held out a small paper bag to Stella, his expression neutral, his eyes unwavering.

Licking her lips, Stella reached over and took the bag, wiping her other sleeve across her nose. "What’s this?" Without waiting, she opened it and stared, stunned, at the lighter, spoon, and foil pack inside. "What the hell!" Shock coursed through the narcotics officer as she saw the very familiar paraphernalia in her lap. Looking quickly at the former Chicagoan, the New York woman frowned fiercely. "I thought you were going to help me quit, not become my new supplier, Mac."

"What!" Johnny sounded just as shocked, anger coursing through his voice and stiffening his body. His hands clenched into ready fists as he narrowed his eyes on the other man.

"Actually," Mac said carefully, hands raised in a placating gesture, "this is part of the cure. Since it’s going to be cold turkey, you’ve got to voluntarily take your last dose, with the knowledge it will be the very last time you take the drug." He kept his voice calm, his posture loose despite the raised hands, palms outward. "And, this gives us a chance to organize your supplies and activity schedule. Within a couple of weeks, you should be clean, but we’ll have to work on the emotional dependency and depression as well."

A frown still on her taunt features, Stella looked to Johnny then back to Mac. Her tone came out hesitant, wary. "This makes sense so far. Keep talking."

He lowered his hands and nodded once. "We’ll keep you here all summer, confined to the house or the backyard. By the fall we should have the ball rolling on cleaning the 15th as well." Mac looked to Johnny, blue eyes meeting blue. "And make a move to bust the narcs supervisor for what he’s done to Starr."

"Stella."

Both men looked to her and Stella gave a shaky laugh, ending on a sob. She ignored the opening of the attic door as Claire joined them, a medium-sized box in her arms. "My name’s Stella Bonasera. My cover is Starr. It’s easy to remember since Stella means Star."

Claire smiled and headed to the bathroom, putting the box on the sink counter so she could start filling the medicine cabinet, drawers, and shelves there. "I’ve always liked the name Star, but Stella suits you much better."

With a wavery smile, Stella looked to the partially obscured woman in the other room. "I’ve been told I need to take another hit."

"That’s right," Claire turned and smiled at Stella. "So you can know it’s your last one. You need to make that decision, to help with the emotional dependency later. You need to want to quit for yourself, not just because you ran out of money temporarily. If you can make the decision, you can be confident in it later."

Johnny sighed and nodded, finally agreeing. "Fine, so Stella takes the heroin and determines it’s her last. Then what? The hospital put her on a medication that took months to wean her from."

Mac shook his head. "The withdrawal goes away within a week or two, but it feels like death and hell rolled into one during the apex of the withdrawal. You need to stay hydrated, active, and busy. Even if you want to just crawl into the corner and die, you’re going through mini-boot camp." A glint came to his eyes, as if he had a devilish secret. "I’m a Marine. I’ll be in charge of exercise. Claire’ll run KP and crying sessions."

"Boot camp?" Horror burst forth as Stella envisioned herself doing pushups in the rain as she tried not to vomit on Mac’s shiny boots. In her waking nightmare, he was dressed in full camouflage complete with flak jacket and helmet.

Walking back into the room, carrying her box, Claire nodded, though she refrained from laughing at the horror on Stella’s face. "Yes, basically exercise designed to work those cramps from your bones and keep your mind off withdrawal."

"You’ve done this before?" Johnny sounded surprised.

The former Marine nodded and turned to pull a lacy cloth from his wife’s box; crystals shimmered throughout the material as the light from the waning sun ran over it. "Yes," he answered the other man. "My cousin, Keenan, was a heroin addict."

"Was?" Johnny wiped a hand over his mouth. "And, uh, what happened to him?"

Shaking the cloth out, revealing a long swatch of white lace with crystals worked into the holes, Mac nodded again. "He got clean and joined the Marines. Just after Beirut, he quit to become a musician. I haven’t heard from him in years."

Relief crossed Johnny’s worried face. "So he lived?"

Claire laughed softly. "Oh, yes. He was in our wedding." She walked to the window to help Mac in hanging the material, which turned out to be curtains. "So, you know what Mac and I’ll be doing for you. And since Johnny’s here, we’ll let him handle medications. If he’s serious about helping you get clean, he can administer the Nyquil and Imodium and such. Those medications will ease the symptoms without getting you addicted to something else."

The red-haired detective looked surprised but slowly nodded. "All right. I can do that. But I’ll have to split my time between here and home. I’m still trying to deal with the new curve ball Laurie threw my way."

Her own problems suddenly eclipsed by worry for her friend, Stella asked, "What’d Laurie do, Johnny?"

He grinned, a self-conscious look marring his handsome features. "More like what we did together, Stella. You know we’ve still been together despite the divorce." At her nod, he ran a hand through his hair and laughed sheepishly. "Well, she’s wants to split up and keep the kids. Sole custody." He held up his hands as if in supplication but shrugged. "I’m trying to get her to come back to me."

"Oh, Johnny," Stella murmured. She wished her mind was focusing better so she could help him. Somehow, despite her befuddled state, Stella knew Johnny and Laurie remarrying was a mistake, though Johnny was a hell of a father.

Johnny was a possessive worrier; he needed to take care of people. Laurie was too independent to let Johnny take care of her. They were wrong together from day one, but neither had seen it until too late. Johnny still didn’t seem to see it. Added to that was Johnny’s nymphomania, not that he’d ever hit up Stella for sex but he seemed to be more sexually driven than many women could or would handle. Stella knew that problem hadn't ended just because he became a father. Johnny needed someone far different from his ex-wife, no matter how good a friendship they still maintained. But he also needed to keep some contact with the twins. Stella's heart ached to help her friends, but she couldn't even help herself.

Wisely, Mac and Claire didn’t interrupt the conversation between the old friends. Rather, they went about preparing the room for the long-term occupancy of the first person they’d met in this new city . . . a woman with a name that brought up memories of their missing daughter: Magnolia Star.

The unexpected withdrawal session might help more than Stella in the long run: Mac and Claire would be too busy taking care of their guest to brood about their loss.

**************

**Setting: April and May of 1998; New York City:**

Hell became the norm for Stella.

If it wasn’t the pounding headache, raging cold symptoms, or screaming, bone deep aching in her muscles, it was the daily punishment her supposed benefactors drove her through. Push ups, sit ups, running in place - - the only relief she seemed to get were the times she spent with her head in the toilet or being half drowned in the shower.

She tried every tactic she could: crying, begging, swearing . . . even threatening the three other people in her world. Nothing ended the torment. Nothing ended the driving exercises. Nothing stopped the developing military-esque routine. One day Mac even tied her to her bed while he sat and listened to her threatening to hunt down his parents and prevent him ever being born; half an hour later the bonds released as Stella begged forgiveness and pleaded for freedom . . . and a little something to take the damn edge off the pain.

Stella had been begging for something a bit more illegal than acetaminophen. She got the latter. Secretly, she hadn’t wanted the illegal drugs anyway, but her surface mind rebelled and she went back to yelling at the former military man. He made her get up and start jogging and stretching

**************

**Setting: June of 1998; New York City:**

The worst of the symptoms seemed to be over. So were the overly strong urges to take heroin to relieve the symptoms. Claire began to let their erstwhile houseguest out of the attic and downstairs, which had been almost completely unpacked.

For something to do, Stella began trading recipes with Claire and the pair found themselves in the kitchen often. When Claire couldn’t be available due to work, Stella found herself invading Mac’s territory: a weapons room and a sewing room, surprisingly. There, Stella learned the crystal embedded curtains had been designed and sewn by Mac. With those curtains, Stella awoke to rainbows nearly every day as sunlight poured through the crystals and across her walls and bedspread.

She knew she’d have to go back to work herself, eventually. Pretty sure her personal time had nearly run out, Stella continued to push the real world away as she lived in this safe haven of support and friendship she’d stumbled into. Johnny visited as often as he could, too, but Stella’s world had rapidly changed to Claire and Mac, Mac and Claire.

Then she found the baby stuff.

The boxes had been placed, unpacked and neatly marked _MaRo_ along the unused wall of the sewing room. Curious, Stella lifted the flap of one and found baby toys set neatly in an apparently new baby bath. She closed the flap, frowning, and turned just as Mac stopped in the doorway.

Both Stella and Mac seemed frozen for a long moment then the ex-Marine stepped into the room and said, “lunch is ready.”

“What does _’MaRo’_ stand for?” Stella countered, her voice soft, gentle.

“Maggie’s Room,” Mac answered. He turned and left, Stella following with a soft frown.

Having heard the comment, Claire frowned too, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She watched her husband a long moment then turned to Stella. “We lost our daughter last year.” The woman who resembled Stella so very much turned and moved into the kitchen.

Stella opened her mouth to say something but didn’t really know what to say. She could sense the topic of Maggie was still fresh for the pair. Instead, she slipped into her chair at the small four-person dining table. “I’m sorry I brought up such a bad event,” she finally settled on.

Mac walked over to Claire and laid a hand on her shoulder, meeting her suddenly sad eyes. He didn’t turn to Stella as he said, “thank you.” Then he leaned in and kissed Claire’s cheek as his wife shut her eyes. The pair remained close, in mutual remembered grief, for a long moment.

Pulling out of the touching tableau, Mac turned to the stove and retrieved the pot there.

Suddenly the day went back to recent normal with Stella, Claire, and Mac sharing lunch before going back to the busy routine of odd jobs and minor discoveries that had become Stella’s world.

**************

**Setting: July 4, 1998; New York City:**

Laughing softly, placing the stack of napkins under a heavy bowl to prevent the wind tearing them away, Stella glanced over to mac working with the meat on the small backyard barbeque grill. She shook her head, vibrant brown curls shining in the sun and slipping luxuriously around her shoulders. “But _why_ don’t you like Valentine’s Day?”

Mac gave a light shrug of one shoulder, throwing Stella a quick grin. “I don’t _not_ like it. I just don’t celebrate it.”

“Why?” Stella probed.

Claire, walking out the back door with a basket of condiments, chuckled throatily, her own equally brown curls lending to the resemblance between the women. “Why save up all your love for only one day? Why shouldn’t we celebrate our love _every_ day?” she countered. “It’s silly that people need a holiday to express their love. What do they do the rest of the year?”

Laughing outright, Stella asked, “and I suppose you don’t save up all the gifts for their birthday or Christmas? You just hand them out willy-nilly whenever you wish?”

“If I want to give a gift in the middle of August, I give it,” Claire confirmed, walking over to give her husband an open bottle and a long kiss.

He smiled and raised the bottle in salute to the ladies before taking a drink. “Besides,” Mac said after swallowing, “what if they need that thing right off? Would you actually _save_ that for a special day or just give it to the person right when they need it?”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas or birthdays?” Stella choked on her own drink, a non-alcoholic imitation beer like Mac’s and Claire’s. No one dran alcohol in deference to Stella’s recovery.

“Of course we do,” Claire laughed. She sank onto one of the outdoor chairs near the table and stretched her back a bit. “We don’t make them into huge blow-out affairs. A gift or two and lots of personal time. And church for Christmas and Easter.”

“Among other days,” Mac chuckled, placing his near-beer on the small shelf of his grill.

Stella made a face, laughing. “You go to church for your birthday?”

“No,” Claire laughed outright, a musical sound which drew a wide smile from her husband.

“Then how do you celebrate your birthday?” Stella challenged, enjoying the amount of love she saw between her new friends.

“I ignore it,” Mac quipped, earning a light, teasing slap on the arm from his wife.

Claire shook her head and smiled at Stella, “we tend to have a private dinner and exchange a gift or two. No, in _this_ household, you’ll find the most important day of the year is today.”

“That’s very philosophical of you,” Stella grinned.

“Not today, everyday,” Mac corrected on a quick laugh. “Today, our nation’s birthday.”

Green eyes widening in feigned horror, Stella made her voice a gasp as she said, “oh, no! Not a . . .”

“Yup,” Claire shot Stella a wide smile. “A true-blue, dyed in the wool, American patriot.”

“”And to celebrate our national’s special day,” Mac interjected, “we grill up some meat, drink some beer, and set off some rocket’s red glare.”

The three friends laughed merrily for a long moment.

“I miss beer,” Stella finally sighed. “When will I be allowed a good adult beverage again? I’m used to wine with dinner.” She looked towards Mac rather than Claire for the answer.

“When you feel ready, but don’t rush it. You don’t want to risk alcohol becoming your new go-to.” Mac offered a gentler smile to Stella, encouragement shining in his blue eyes.

Nodding, Stella strived to keep the mood on the lighter note. She grinned widely, held up her own near-beer, and claimed, “well, on that day, I look forward to getting you drunk, Mac. Then we can see if you can tell Claire and I apart!” She raised the bottle again in salute to the woman who so resembled her.

Mac laughed heartily and shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry, Stella. I don’t need to be drunk to tell you two apart.” He winked as the ladies caught onto his joke then joined his laughter.

A pager on Mac’s belt went off and he checked it. With a sigh, he offered the spatula to his wife. “Be back when I can. Don’t worry about saving me a burger.”

Nodding, Claire accepted his claim with resignation. She watched her husband head into the house. Glancing at Stella, she shrugged and said, “the life of a cop, you know?”

Stella did know and merely nodded in response. The news that Mac was law enforcement was no surprise. She’d figured it out somewhere between April and May. It was a small miracle unto itself that she’d propositioned a copy and he hadn’t arrested her. Instead, Mac had decided to give Stella a second chance.

She wouldn’t let him down.


	9. Sometimes Failure Drives Us

**Setting: Monday, May 12, 1997; Chicago:**

Slipping the lid onto the box, clearly marked _Taylor, Magnolia 04-1998_ , Derek let the local investigator take the box away. He watched regretfully, a surge of frustration welling inside at their failure. A month and a half into the investigation and they still hadn’t located the missing infant.

Turning to the frowning man watching from the doorway, Derek offered a regretful sigh. “This doesn’t mean the Chicgo guys are stopping, Lieutenant. We’ve done the profile and are being reassigned.” Jason had already explained to the grieving parents why the pair couldn’t continue to aid in the kidnapping case, but Derek still felt like he let the pair down.

Mac Taylor, the grieving father, shook his head and stepped over to Derek. “We understand, Derek. We really do.” He held out a hand to the training profiler. “Both Claire and I are law enforcement. We know people get reassigned. You and Gideon did your jobs, and I think you. Now it’s up to the Chicago FBI unit.” He shook Derek’s hand. “You’ve made this a bit easier for Claire, and I really appreciate that.”

As if summoned by her name, Mac’s wife, Claire, walked into the room. She had only been released from the hospital a week before and still seemed pale and tired. Her eyes, however, shone with bright intelligence. Offering a sad smile, Claire asked, “all changed over, Chocolate Honey?”

Derek offered Claire a smile in return, walking over and giving her a welcome hug. She didn’t disappoint, hugging in return under the approving eye of her ex-military husband. “Everything’s been turned over to the FBI. Jason’s just finishing up the verbal runthrough right now.”

Nodding, Claire stepped back and said, “thank you for everything. Now, we let the FBI do their jobs. We’re sure to get Maggie back.” She had retained enough hope that Maggie hadn’t been outright killed; after all, most infant abductions happened so the baby could be sold into a family. And if the profile held true, the kidnapper in this case had actually _wanted_ to raise Maggie specifically. That brought the young mother hope that her baby remained healthy and cared for.

Gideon stopped in the doorway of the room and took in the three people inside. He turned to his former commander. “What are you going to do now? You mentioned moving?” He had predicted Claire to be in danger by the UNSUB, but so far nothing untoward had happened to her. That didn’t mean the threat was any less - - a newborn took a lot of energy to raise, possibly distracting the UNSUB for the time being.

“I’ve received a job offer for the crime lab in New York. Claire’s already looking into a transfer to Port Authority in Manhattan. We’re moving, Gideon.” Mac clasped hands with his friend. “Chicago PD and the Feds have already arranged to keep in touch with us there.” He paused then said, “it might force the UNSUB to move as well.”

Nodding, knowing he’d been the one to advise the move initially to protect Claire, Jason shook hands firmly with Mac. “And you can keep in contact with me. I’ll look into the case with any fresh profiling breakthroughs that come up.”

Nodding, stepping back to his wife’s side and slipping an arm around her waist, Mac said, “thank you again for coming so quickly. If you ever need help from New York, let me know. And thank you, Derek.”

Derek Morgan nodded and picked up a thick folder filled with reports, including their profile. He offered it to Mac. “THis is a duplicate of our file. Maybe someone in New York can add to it.”

Mac let a brief, grim smile flit over his face and nodded, accepting the file. That file would remain on the edge of his desk until he retired or found his daughter. It would be the start of a stack of cold cases Mac would look into over the years.


	10. Second Chances

**Setting: Monday, August 10, 1998; New York City:**

“Stella?”

Claire’s voice drew Stella’s attention from the floor length mirror she peered in. Turning, smoothing her hands over the business skirt suit, Stella opened her mouth to ask Claire’s opinion then stopped at the sight of the tall red-haired man behind her new friend.

“Johnny? I thought you were tied up in court!” Stella swiftly walked over on the low heels Claire had loaned her to match the borrowed suit. Stella hugged the taller man to her warmly, smiling in welcome.

“I am,” Johnny laughed softly. He let his vivid blue eyes rove over the very changed woman before him. “I’d forgotten how nice you clean up, Stel.” The words held no condemnation. “I’m on lunch and thought I’d stop by real quick to give you moral support. I know Mac got you an interview at the crime lab today.”

Nodding, suddenly nervous once more, Stella smoothed her jacket over her hips. “If I can get this job, I can quit the Fifteenth, Johnny. Mac swears he kept this latest fall from the records with the home treatment.”

Reaching over to plant a kiss on Stella’s forehead, Johnny nodded. “He did. Andy says they think you’re on sabbatical to find your parents. No one has any clue you fell again.”

Stella straightened and drew a breath. “I’m going to pass this interview and get the job. Then I’ll be out of Narcs. The lab sounds like a great opportunity. But I hear the supervisor is a strict, no nonsense guy.”

“He is,” Claire confirmed, smiling as she moved to carefully hug Stella. “But just be honest and you’ll do fine.”

“Honest,” Stella sighed. “I can’t be completely open, Claire. If he knows about my past with heroin, I’ll be booted to the curb.”

“I don’t think so. Be honest how you worked hard to kick the habit,” Claire advised, pressing her philosophy. “Mac assures me the supervisor already knows about your history, so just be honest. Johnny’s driving you down on his way back to court. Call when you need a ride back.”

“You got it,” Stella said. She reached for the resume and credentials Mac and Claire had helped her reproduce in the last two weeks. She wasn’t very familiar with the twelfth precinct or the crime lb and hoped they were nothing like the corrupt fifteenth. Stella wasn’t sure if she liked the idea Mac had talked so extensively with the lab supervisor.

Pausing on her way to the door, Stella looked over Claire and Johnny. “What if I’m tempted? I’ll be around drugs at the lab.”

Leering, Johnny leaned close and stage-whispered, “if you get tempted, just tell em and I’ll tie you to _my_ bed for a couple months.

Stella slapped his chest, laughter breaking through her nerves. “You wish!” She hugged Claire one last time and followed the man from the house to his small car.

**************

“Thanks, Johnny,” Stella said, stepping back from the car to wave the driver on. As the car pulled away from the curb, the young Greek American woman turned to look up at the building she hoped she’d be working at in the near future.

Smoothing down her jacket one last time, Stella threw back her shoulders and straightened her spine, putting on an expression of serious intent. She stepped in through the front door and stopped at the front desk where a young woman in uniform sat, a tall black haired youth, perhaps nineteen or twenty, standing beside her, also in uniform.

“My name is Stella Bonasera. I have an appointment with the crime lab supervisor, please.” Stella brandished her paperwork but did not relinquish it.

The dark haired man, well taller than six foot, nodded and gestured for the woman to follow him to an elevator in back. “This way, Ms. Bonasera. The supervisor’s in the morgue right now, but he’ll be up shortly. You can wait in his office.”

“Thank you,” Stella replied, offering an easy smile to the young officer.

“I’m Flack,” the cop said in answer to an unspoken question. “Been here a year and that guy’s strict, but fair. Can hardly find a better supervisor.”

“That’s good to know.” Stella continued to smile, delighted at how smoothly the elevator worked. Money had definitely been allocated for maintenance in this precinct.

The elevator stopped smoothly and the doors opened, revealing a pristine looking work space, large with huge windows separating blocks of space into labs and offices. Don gestured to a set of stairs. “This way, Miss.” He led her up the steps into a sparsely furnished office. “He’ll be back shortly. Just wait here.” And Officer Don Flack left her to her own devices, quickly heading back to the elevator and his front desk duties.

Stella looked around noting that the office held no personal items: no photographs of family, no knick-knacks, nothing to indicate the personality or background of the man who ran it. A single framed picture hung on the wall, but that was of President Ronald Reagan so didn’t give much away. On the otherwise bare desk, beside the computer, sat a neat stack of files. A soft frown crossed Stella’s fine features; she had no clue how to work this interview since she had no clue about the man who ran the lab. Finally, she decided to trust Claire’s advice and just be honest.

Behind her the door to the office opened and Stella turned, smiling and already offering her hand. She froze when she recognized Mac Taylor, in a business suit, standing there, also smiling.

“Hello, Stella. Do you think you can resist temptation if I hire you?” Mac asked, still smiling.

Collecting herself quickly, Stella offered a more genuine smile and nodded. Mac took her hand and she firmly shook it. “Mac, I am clean. I worked hard to be clean. And I will _stay_ clean. I want to work here.” Stella realized just why Claire had stressed complete honesty; it was the only thing that would win over Mac.

"Then let me show you around. You can start training this afternoon." Mac answered. He moved past her to lead her out of the office then paused at the top of the steps. "Oh, and Claire says dinner’s at seven."

With that he led her out to her new job.

**************

_”The best way to guarantee a loss is to quit._

_Morgan Freeman”_

**Author's Note:**

> Second Note: In the SpeedBurn timeline series significant changes occur in various episodes, marking differences in each series. The initial drastically changed episodes are in chronological order: "Bait" (Without a Trace), "Reveille" (NCIS), "Lost Son" (CSI: Miami), "Bodies in Motion" (Crime Scene Investigation), "Summer in the City" (CSI: NY), and "In Name and Blood (In Birth and Death)" (Criminal Minds). Many episodes after those changed are also different. This story is number 1 in the grand scheme. Thank you.  
> .  
> Disclaimer: CSI: NY was created by Ann Donahue, Carol Mendelsohn, and Anthony E. Zuiker and produced by Alliance Atlantis Communications (2004-2007), Alliance Atlantis Motion Picture Production (2004-2007), Alliance Atlantis Productions (2004-2007), CBS Paramount Network Television (2006-2009), CBS Productions (2004-2006), CBS Television Studios (2009-present), Clayton Entertainment, and Jerry Bruckheimer Television. Criminal Minds was created by Jeff Davis and produced by Touchstone Television (2005-2007), Paramount Network Television (2005-2006), The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios (2007-present), CBS Paramount Network Television (2006-2009), and CBS Television Studios (2009-present). NYPD Blue was created by Steven Bochco and David Milch and produced by 20th Century Fox Television, Fox Television Network, and Steven Bochco Productions. I am in no way connected with these people, and I do not claim ownership of these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story, and most likely not a story any of them would have written, had they had the time or no. I am making no money from this and it is just for my entertainment and that of free entertainment to a select group. Thank you.


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